


Tomorrow is a Long Time

by Teese



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:38:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been having a bit of a Bob Dylan crush lately - it turned into an idea, inspired by every song he's written about his ex wife. I'll probably post a chapter every now and then, seeing my Dylan mood is a bit now and then. Also the story is written about "Bobby" (because I feel foolishly guilty writing Bob Dylan in a fan fiction and because I think the nickname is cute on him). </p><p>I don't mean to offend anyone by writing this - just funny to use someone like Bobby for a character and it's not actually historically correct at all.  </p><p>I'm sorry that the first chapter is so short :( next will be longer! </p><p>Enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tomorrow is a Long Time

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a bit of a Bob Dylan crush lately - it turned into an idea, inspired by every song he's written about his ex wife. I'll probably post a chapter every now and then, seeing my Dylan mood is a bit now and then. Also the story is written about "Bobby" (because I feel foolishly guilty writing Bob Dylan in a fan fiction and because I think the nickname is cute on him). 
> 
> I don't mean to offend anyone by writing this - just funny to use someone like Bobby for a character and it's not actually historically correct at all. 
> 
> I'm sorry that the first chapter is so short :( next will be longer! 
> 
> Enjoy :)

She was the kind of woman one could not look at just once, even if it was rude to look twice, and never did she look up to meet one’s eyes. Her eyes were always hidden away though, like some secret treasure one had to earn up to. Bobby often caught himself staring at the mysterious woman with her pale, silken flesh and her angelic, downy hair. He caught himself wondering what beauty lay hidden behind those oversized sunglasses of hers. 

The woman, whom he had secretly named Hathor, would never look up from her book of choice, which varied from Scott Fitzgerald to John Steinbeck, all of which Bobby himself found mildly fascinating. He sometimes wondered what she thought when she read those lines, those very same lines his eyes had read many years earlier, and whether she thought the same as he had or not. Perhaps a bolder man would have gone straight up to her and asked her, forcing the mystery woman herself to look up and give him a piece of her mind, but Bobby was reluctant to force his presence upon a lady he did not know, and a lady he rather enjoyed to look at. But he also cared for the daydreams, and he did not want his illusion of her to shatter. For all that he knew, she could be shallow and thoughtless, and he could not stand the idea. 

Bobby tried not to focus too much on her and too little at the more important tasks at hand, the fame and fortune that would soon be his, and there would be many women. There would be enough women. 

Hathor had first come to the small coffee shop a few months ago, when the winter had been harsh and the coffee rich. Even in wintertime, she would wear those sunglasses, almost as if afraid of being recognized. And even if the coffee shop was one of the trendiest places in town those days, she never stayed long enough to hear any of the live musicians who came there, some of them famous and some of them reaching for it, much like Bobby himself. 

Sometimes she would bring a small child with her, and the child would always be good to her mommy and kindly sit still, drinking her hot chocolate or eating a sandwich. The child resembled her mother in many ways, in more ways than she resembled her father, with her huge, questioning eyes and ivory skin. And sometimes, when she was afraid, she would cry without a sound. Bobby thought that was beautiful, in a poetic manner. It was sad too. 

Bobby hated to see her leave, as she eventually would every Saturday around noon, forcing him to look elsewhere. A few hours later, he would do his songs and try to do them as good as he could, but he had never cared much for performing for an audience that preferred the coffee over him. He felt overlooked most of the night, until it got so late he took his leave and went back to Suze’s apartment, playing her a song or two and then pecked her on the lips and slipped under the covers. He would listen to the traffic for a good thirty minutes before his eyes could finally rest for the night, but his mind was never freed.


End file.
